


A Book, A Sorcerer, and a Demon

by Restless_Resolve



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Magic, Awkward Flirting, Aziraphale is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley has trust issues, Cuddles, Curse Breaking, Did I mention cuddles?, Even when a sorcerer Aziraphale still owns a human bookshop, First Kiss, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gabriel is a dick, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Magical World, Modern Setting, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Strangers to Lovers, Violence, more tags in future, reference to past sexual assault (not graphic), reference to past torture, they are both brainless geniuses with no chill when it comes to each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23978896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Restless_Resolve/pseuds/Restless_Resolve
Summary: He knew the story. Everyone did. Solomon's tome was a book of legend rumored to hold an entity of mass power ripped from the ethereal planes and bound into servitude. Tales had been told of the book popping up over the years, with the unleashing of the demon being followed by great calamity: the loss of Atlantis, the destruction of Pompeii…wars…so many wars fought and lives destroyed. The demon was supposed to be a serpent, a master deceiver who coaxed and beguiled the darkness of all who summoned it to the surface. There was no sorcerer alive who did not covet its possession.Well. None except one.Aziraphale, Guardian of The Library of Eden, was never one for seeking knowledge for anything else other than for knowledge's sake. However, when a book of great power is thrust into his unsuspecting hands, a choice must be made. Does he follow the will of The Order and hand the demon over? or are there deeper secrets hidden in the shadows still to learn?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 73





	1. A Book

**Author's Note:**

> SOOOOO HAAAY! Welcome to my cluster fuck of a fic! This is my first Good Omens piece, So I hope you guys enjoy it. :)

Chapter 1: The Book 

There were fewer things Lord Fell preferred more than sorting through his library and sitting down to read with a nice cup of cocoa and some soft Mozart playing in the background. Except, for well, the pleasure of finding new treasures to add to it, of course. Standing amongst the shelves of hundreds of books, Lord Fell could not rip his eyes away from the gem that laid before him. 

“My word, Mr. Young, wherein the heavens did you find such a wonder?”

The hardcover was crafted of the richest leather bindings, intricate designs spiraled and looped in ever fiber, weaving a design so compilated it would take hours to decipher.

“Inheritance, from my late grandmother,” Mr. Young shrugged, “before that I can’t rightly say, it’s been in the family for quite a long time.” 

With a delicate touch, Lord Fell drew his finger along the spine of the tome, ignoring the electric shock of chaotic power that radiated from it as his eyes took in every detail of the iron hinges that framed each corner with plaited knots, sealing it shut.

“You wouldn’t happen to have the key, would you?” Lord Fell hummed, eyeing the lock with no little interest. His heart nearly beating out of his chest with the thought of what new knowledge lurked within its bound pages. Without further ado, Mr. Young reached into his pocket and pulled out an iron key with the same spiral design, and handed it over.

“Not much good it will do you; thing is practically unreadable,” he grumbled.

“Nonsense,” Lord Fell hummed, as he fit the key into the lock with a delicate twist, giving a little wiggle as the lock popped open. “I have never encountered a book that with enough time and consideration has not spilled its – Oh good _Lord_...”

The thing was a monster. The words a jumbled collection of various languages mixing and mingling throughout each line with no distinct rhyme or reason. Starting in ancient Greek only to change halfway through the sentence to Arabic, and then, not three words later to Egyptian, _mid-word_!

It was a disaster.

An incomprehensible menace.

It was nothing short of remarkable.

“Mr. Young…”

“The thing is,” Mr. Young started, pointedly ignoring the way Lord Fell was practically ravishing the pages with his eyes. “I’m a practical man, and I don’t see much sense in keeping things that are of no use to me. And while sentimentality is something to consider, there is only so much of it I can accommodate. To be frank, Lord Fell, I need this book out of my house. Immediately.”

Taken aback from the darkening tone, Lord Fell looked up.

“I may not be a great sorcerer like yourself, my Lord,” Mr. Young continued, eyes locked with his in unspoken meaning. “But even I can feel the power that comes off that thing. I can’t have something like that sitting around my house. Not with Adam.”

“Of course,” Lord Fell agreed. “And while I would be most agreeable to taking such a thing off your hands, I must ask, why bring it to me?”

“It was either give it to you or give it to The Order. Considering the nature of the book, I’d find sleeping at night a lot easier if I knew it was in your hands instead of any of those other wizards.”

“Not to disagree with you, but you do know I am, in fact, a member of that very Order myself, dear boy.”

“Yes, but, you’re not…and I mean this with the utmost respect my Lord, but you’re not like the others.”

“Ah, well,” Lord Fell said, twisting his hands nervously as he glanced back down at the book. “I see. Well, as I said, I am more than happy to take this off your hands. You need not worry. I believe all that’s left to discuss then would be the price-“

Mr. Young shook his head.

“Consider it as payment for everything you have done for Adam. He’s been so much better since you’ve taken him on as your apprentice.”

“If,” Lord Fell coughed as if that action would draw attention away from the light blush that dusted his cheeks. “If you’re certain, but I must insist it has been no trouble taking on dear Adam. He is a bright lad with endless possibilities. I expect he will be a fine sorcerer in the future.”

And with that, the matter was settled.

It was not long after that Lord Fell left the Young residence and headed back to his shop with his new prize tucked delicately inside his briefcase. As he walked back, his thoughts could not help but drift to their conversation. It was true, he supposed, he was hardly like the others of his Order. While they were all sharp and decisive, he was far softer and dithering with an endless love of tartan. Sure, he had power, but that was a fact that could be easily forgotten when looking at him. He had never quite cared about amassing power for power's sake. He didn’t spend his nights dreaming of the return of the old ways, back when sorcerers and witches ruled with the regular humans cowering before them. He was a collector. An archivist, really. Knowledge was to him the greatest joy, and keeping it safe his life’s goal. So, while the others ran around the world in search of strength and status, Lord Fell sat comfortably in his home, satisfied in his role as The Guardian to The Library of Eden, the world's largest and most comprehensive collection of magical and human knowledge alike.

With only having stopped for a quick nibble at his favorite bistro across the street, Fell entered his shop without much delay, immediately flipping the sign to closed and locking the door behind him.

“You have it.”

“What!” With a gasp, Lord fell turned around to stare balefully at his grinning apprentice. “Must you always sneak up on me?”

“Have you read it yet?” Adam asked, ignoring his question entirely.

“How did you-“

“I told him you should be the one to have it. No one else will care for it like you will.”

“Oh...well…Thank you, Adam. I promise to keep it safe. How was the shop while I was away?”

Adam's grin only grew bigger as he said, “not a single customer.”

“Splendid. Now, how about we have a cup of tea before you head back, I think tonight I’ll be closing early.

“Can we have some biscuits too?”

“I think some biscuits sound like a scrummy idea. Let’s see what we can find, shall we?”

For the next hour, Adam and Lord Fell spent their time chatting while drinking tea and eating biscuits. Adam eagerly showed Lord Fell the new spell he had been working on, while he had provided slight adjustments to stance and pronunciation to achieve better results. Despite Lord Fell’s attention, Adam knew his Master’s heart wasn’t in teaching at the moment, but for the research, he was undoubtedly looking forward to starting on his new book. So, as the hour drew to a close, Adam politely excused himself from the table with a quick word on how he wouldn’t be able to come back tomorrow, but would definitely be back for his lesson after school got out, Friday.

The second the door shut behind Adam, Fell had the door locked and his briefcase in hand as he quickly made his way down to his library, a maze of rooms kept hidden well beneath the ground of London’s streets, unknown by any but those that knew of the magical world. through the twisting corridors, Fell walked past all manner of books until he came to what his students loved to refer to as, The Vault; a specially secured room only accessible by him which contained his own private collection consisting of books far too rare, or powerful, to be seen by those who would do more than just look. It was here that Fell opened his case and withdrew the tomb, placing it carefully on his desk before putting on his reading glasses and opening it up.

It took hours.

Through the entire night and straight into the next morning, Fell spent, unmoving from his seat, painstakingly translating and deciphering each page and coded transcription. Some of it contained a rich history of lore, speaking of the great deeds of Solomon, one of the most powerful sorcerers in recorded history. While others contained spells. It was a fascinating study and required his utmost attention as well as all the knowledge he had on ancient and lost languages alike to understand it. Even that at times was not enough, as some were even written in code, forcing him to mark the page to come back and pick it apart later. It wasn’t, however, until halfway into the tome that Fell discovered the true source of the powerful aura that emanated from it, as he came across the one inscription he had heard about countless times over his lifetime, but never thought he’d be alive to read it first-hand.

**_Solomon’s Demon._ **

With a shaky breath, Fell felt his heart plummet into his stomach.

He knew the story. Everyone did. Solomon’s demon was rumored to be an entity of mass power that was ripped from the ethereal planes and bound to a book. It had taken twenty of the world’s most powerful casters three days to achieve, but by the end, they had succeeded. The demon’s power was considered the marker stone of Solomon’s reign, being responsible for the mass slaughtering of his enemies, as well as the construction of his grand palace. After Solomon’s death, the book had been passed down to his son, Rehoboam, but then had somehow been lost after his death. Tales had been told since then of the book popping up over the years, with the unleashing of the demon being followed by great calamity: the loss of Atlantis, the destruction of Pompeii…wars…so many wars fought and lives destroyed. The demon was supposed to be a serpent, a master deceiver who coaxed and beguiled the darkness of all who summoned it to the surface. There was no sorcerer alive who did not covet its possession, no least of all the head of The Order, Gabriel.

Aziraphale immediately slammed the book closed.

Eight days.

I had been eight days since Aziraphale had been down into the vault.

Eight days since he had laid eyes on that book.

Eight days.

He should call The Order. It was the expected thing to do. But no. Calling The Order would mean _giving_ it to them…and that was…well…besides, he reasoned, it’s not like he knew it was real. For all he knew it could be a fake! An elaborate copy made up to fool the unsuspecting and unknowledgeable! He couldn’t very well bother Gabriel over something so trifling as a fake copy. No, that wouldn’t do at all.

Aziraphale stopped in front of the door. His hands itched to push past it, to travel back down. But he hesitated. He remembered the power that came off of it. There was something inside of it. Maybe not _the demon_ of history, but something of considerable strength at the very least. It would be irresponsible to not know.

“Right,” He said to no one in particular, and pushed open the door.

Back in the Vault, Aziraphale eyed the book in question before crossing the room and sitting down. It was just as he had left it. Crackling with nerves, he proceeded to open it to the page in question. It looked just as he remembered it. The incantations and instructions buried amongst a plethora of code and intermingling languages. The only thing that wasn’t was the list of names situated under the final instructions.

“The Master Seal.” Aziraphale read, looking down…yes, clear as day, a signature bearing the mark of Solomon, and right below his, the signature of Rehoboam.

“Well, what kind of forgery would it be if it didn’t have the names of the first.”

Curious though, Aziraphale continued to scan the list of the so-called masters through time. Some of them were unsurprising: Timur and Genghis khan being the obvious ones, both horrific warmongers who used their magic to create great pain. But others, Emperor Qin Shi Huang and Emperor Shah Jahan, as well as dozens of humans of no political standing that he knew of, was far more confusing.

No matter, one way or another, Aziraphale was going to find his answers soon enough. Going back to the top of the book, Aziraphale began to slowly work his way through deciphering the instructions as well as writing down a list of the ingredients needed for the summoning. For such a complicated instruction, the procedure was surprisingly uncomplicated, so simple, in fact, almost anyone could do it with the proper instruction. He was starting to feel better about the whole thing. Surely something so powerful couldn’t be summoned so easily, right? Regardless, Aziraphale was never one to take risks, and so made sure that the summoning sigil was also laced with many protective seals just in case. Taking no chances, Aziraphale added the strongest protective runes he knew to the pentagram, not only would they keep the demon inside the circle, but it would drain the creature of all its magical abilities so it would only be able to maintain its true form, a shifting vapor of magical essence. It would still be able to talk, mind you, so for extra security he also added truth runes, making it impossible for the demon to lie without great physical suffering. Not a very necessary step, considering Aziraphale had no intention of talking to the creature other to confirm what it was or was not. But even so. No harm ever came from being too cautious. Taking a step back, Aziraphale double, and then triple checked his work to ensure not even the smallest line was out of place. It wouldn’t do to present the demon with a weak spot and have it exploit it.

Satisfied with that, all that was left to do was arrange the incense, light the candles, and then begin the summons. Having completed just that, Aziraphale preceded to get into his own protective circle, took a deep breath, and began the incantation.

\+ + + + + + + + + + + + +

It is amazing how far a mind can wander when it is left alone long enough. Trapped in his own ethereal prison: no sound, no other person, not even his own body for company, all Crowley could do was reflect. At least there was no small amount of material to reflect on after the years. Most of it bad, sure. Like the memories of his capture. Over 2000 years later and Solomon’s betrayal was still a bitter pill to swallow. Then, there were the _masters_. Monsters, the lot of them. All power-hungry. They didn’t care who they hurt or what it cost; so long as they got their glory, what did it matter, right? The days before were also a topic usually off the table. No good ever came of remembering what he used to have. It’s not like he was ever going to get it back, after all. But some. Some…well, it was always the _some_ he tried hardest to focus on. The times where his magic was used for creation over destruction. The ones who sought his aid not for grandeur, but just acknowledgment in the fact that they had something worth remembering. It made sense, the world being a cruel and ever-loyal bitch, that it was in the middle of one of his fondest memories that the pain had started. It was as it always was, like shattering bones and boiling flesh being ripped and reformed, only to be torn apart again as his essence was twisted and yanked by the call. If he had had a mouth he would be screaming. It always hurt. Human bodies were never designed to be molded as such.

Through the haze of pain, the sound of chanting filled the space, each word acting like an iron shackle that locked around his soul. They bound him, drawing him out from the pages that held him. Whoever was calling him, they were powerful.

It was always the powerful ones that Crowley feared the most.

Broken screams overpowered the sounds of chanting as Crowley was thrust back into the material world. Everything burned as new flesh formed in the placement of the essence that had become his only physicality.

Joints cracked as they fit back into place.

Senses flooded him in one solid combustion of consciousness: the rugged feel of worn wood under his hands and feet; the silken scrape of his shendyt tangled around his legs; and the thick smell of incense and rosemary which permeated the room.

From the way he felt his magic immediately sealed, he knew he was locked in some blasted pentagram.

_From one cage to the next, it would seem._

Coughing from the fumes, his throat and nose burned from the scent of the incense. His body, now fully restored, lay sprawled on the ground with his face pressed tightly to the boards.

“Fuck.” His throat was raw, his body quivered like shattered glass just teetering on the edge of collapsing in on itself. His voice, he lamented, sounded no more stable than he felt.

“You’d think,” newly formed bones cracked under pressure as he forced himself onto his hands and knees, “that after thousands of years of the same blasted thing, I’d get used to it. But, funny enough,” he managed to get one foot firmly planted on the ground, “no matter how many times –“ he pushed up, “ – you lot call me from that, “ stumbled, “ _fucking_ book, you never quite get over the feeling of having your body disintegrated into the ether only to be forcibly put back together as if you are just one, big, _sodding, puzzzzzle.”_

 _“Now,”_ Crowley growled, having finally righted himself into what could only be described as a standing lounge. His eyes snapped open, only to glare at the summoner in question. “Why don’t we just get to the point where you tell me what you want and I decide if I feel like doing it.”


	2. Not a Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale summons a demon in search of answers, only to be left with more questions than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you who have read my story, written comments, and left kudos, you have my sincerest thanks! 
> 
> I really hope you guys enjoy this new chapter because I had a blast making it!

Chapter 2: Not a Demon 

He was tall, slender, with narrow hips wrapped in a nearly translucent black Egyptian skirt. Long, crimson locks twisted around his face and down his back. And those eyes…. good _lord,_ those eyes; like swirling hews of golden sphalerite burning in fire and brimstone. 

Aziraphale could see everything in them: the hatred, disgust, _and the fear_. All of it boiled and rolled as his pupils, snake-like slits, remained trained on him in an unwavering appraisal. 

He was a bird in those eyes: trapped and paralyzed. 

“What? Got nothing to say?” Perfect lips pulled back into a piercing sneer. “No speech about how great you are? No grand spiel of power and domination?” His eyes… no! _its_ eyes, finally released him to take in its surroundings.

Aziraphale let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he had been holding. It was too easy, watching the way it moved, back rigid and muscles tight, ready to spring at the slightest hint of provocation, to forget that the creature standing before him was just that, a creature. Everything about it was an illusion meant to trick and beguile. It’s screams of pain as it took on its human form topped with its unearthly beauty were just layers of deception meant to tempt him. The fact that Aziraphale had set up runes to prevent this very thing from happening only meant that the demon was more powerful than he had prepared himself for. And if the spells he cast to prevent it from using his powers were useless, then…no, clearly the effects were not without some merit, otherwise, the demon would not just be standing there, waiting. There was still a chance the other runes were having an effect, even if it was a small one. Aziraphale gathered his resolve. 

“See here, you, you– ” 

“It’s Crowley.” 

Aziraphale blinked. 

“What?”

“Crowley,” The demon, _Crowley_ , continued. “Not _you_ , or _it_ , or _thing_ , just Crowley.”

“Well, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s heartbeats slammed against his chest. “If you would let me–“

“Let?” Crowley scoffed, throwing his head back with a chilling laugh before turning to face Aziraphale properly, mockingly. “There is no let, not with your kind.”

“My kind?” Aziraphale repeated, incredulous. 

“Wizard, sorcerer, bell ended tosser, take your pick, it’s all the same.” 

Aziraphale gasped as furry took over caution. 

“Wha-, you, how DARE you, Sorcerers are noble people who dedicate their time and power to aiding those in need –“

“pleeeeeease,” Crowley, no! _the demon_ hissed. “The only needs your people heed are their own! You exploit and you destroy with no care for who you harm, and all for the glory of being remembered as the _best._ Every last one of you is the same.” 

“You speak as if you had no hand in their destruction!” Aziraphale tightened his hands into fists. He needed to regain his calm; anger is what the demon wanted. It didn’t matter that what the creature said didn’t make any sense, as if the actions taken by its handlers were anything less than what it had wanted in the end. 

“Why, if memory serves,” Aziraphale continued, keeping himself steady. “Their monstrosity was only a result of _your_ demonic work!”

“Me!”

“I’ve seen the names,” More casual now. Detached. With only the smallest amount a rage still simmering under the surface. “The list of wizards and humans you have served through history. While it may be true that not all of them were the kindest from the start, it is equally true that their worst deeds, there most heinous actions were all taken after you had tempted them into it.”

The demon cocked its head, its hair shifting to reveal a black serpent tattooed on the side of its face. It stared, unblinking, into his eyes and right through to his core. 

“You blame the tool for the actions of the handler? Like I had a choice?” The demon slinked forward, its hips swayed and rolled with a natural grace as it raised its forearm and leaned on the invisible barrier of the circle. It didn’t even flinch when its skin came in contact with the electrifying aura. It leaned further still, resting its forehead on its arm. 

“You truly believe what you’re saying, don’t you? That I caused it? that _I_ was the one to force _their_ hands?” Pity. The demon was pitying him! “Sorry to burst your bubble but those bastards thought up all that nonsense on their own.” It was lying. It had to be lying. Saldarim was nothing more than a child, not even a mages apprentice, when he first got his hands on the book! barely 16 years of age with nothing; only to end up dying alongside the royal family he had killed when he used the demon to start a revolution that threw the country into a civil war for nearly 60 years. 

“Tools don’t whisper lies and corrupt minds.” 

Was he to believe that that innocent boy had forced a being like _this_ into something like _that_? Aziraphale shook his head, stepping forward to the very edge of his protective circle. 

“You’re a serpent, you look into the hearts of your victims and take advantage of the weaknesses that lie within. You feed their hatred and their darkest wishes until their souls become as soiled and as tarnished as your own! Even now, you take a form meant to seduce me, weaving your words to create feelings of doubt! Well, it won’t work.” 

Gone was the pity as the demon’s eye’s narrowed, its voice laced with venom. 

“The only form I take is my own, just as whatever doubts you feel are yours. I am bound by the runes you placed, or have you already forgotten?”

“Runes that have failed, obviously!” 

“Obviously,” it jeered. “Is that it then? is that why you’ve summoned me? you think yourself too weak and seek the strength my enslavement could provide? Fucking typical.”

“The only thing I want from you is the truth.” Aziraphale sighed, exasperated. “Which is something I’m unlikely to get considering the runes have clearly failed to work.” 

“For somebody’s sake!” The demon pushed himself away from the barrier, throwing its arms about. “There is nothing wrong with your _runes_! I’m not lying!”

“Of course you’re lying, you’re a demon, it’s what you do!”

“M’not a demon.” _Not a demon_ , Aziraphale rolled his eyes to the heavens.

“Well, what else would you be, an aardvark?”

That seemed to stop the demons flailing about as it stilled, looking at Aziraphale as if it didn’t know if it should be amused, enraged, or insulted by his words only to settle for all three and then some. 

“Really _?_ A bloody _aardvark_!”

“Well,” Aziraphale remarked, gesturing at the demon with a raised eyebrow. “If you wanted to pass for human, maybe you should have gone for something a little less like a pulchritudinous nymph and more...well” He faltered, a deep blush creeping up his face at the lascivious grin the demon was now sporting. “… uh… more… _look_ , I _did not_ summon you here to argue with you!” The look didn’t disappear even as the demon dropped its smile into that of amusement, it merely settled in its eyes as it crossed its arms.

“Could have fooled me.” 

“Are you always so difficult?”

“If you wanted a more agreeable slave you should have chosen another book.” 

“Good lord, this is getting us nowhere. Look…”

“Crowley.” The demon insisted, lifting his chin in a clear challenge. Aziraphale sighed. 

“Yes, Crowley. Let me make one thing clear. I have no intention of using you for any other purpose than confirming if you are, indeed, the demo-“

“Not a demon.”

“The _demon,_ ” Aziraphale punctuated, glaring. “As indicated in this book.”

“And then what?”

“Pardon?” 

The demon glared, gesturing to the book that lay on the table. 

“If I am, what then? Do you just plan to add me to your shelves and call it a day? Not bloody likely.”

“Would that really be so hard to believe?” Aziraphale asked. For whatever reason, that seemed to be the very wrong question to ask as the demon’s stance turned entirely rigged, its eyes clouded over with a haunted gaze. Its lips parted; soundless words cut off as it bit down on its lip with great force. Aziraphale shifted his feet, his hands twitched in their need to do _something_ as the weight of the air bore down on the both of them until, finally, Crowley broke it, his voice paper-thin. 

“Yes.”

“Well,” Aziraphale’s own voice wavered as he fought to regain control over the situation. He ignored the way his heart clenched with pain. “What you choose to believe is not relevant to me.”

“But it is relevant to you.” Crowley sighed, closing his eyes as if, he too, needed a moment to collect himself again. “So, tell me, oh great and powerful sorcerer, how do you plan on getting the truth out of me if you’re convinced everything I say is a lie? Hmmm?” 

“I suppose I’ll just have to start with testing for certain if the runes really are working as you say. Although, I don’t expect they are.”

“And how, exactly, are you going to do that?” 

Aziraphale shrugged. 

“You’re going to lie.”

The demon flinched as if struck. 

“ _Are you insane_?” It screeched, frantic. Startled by its sudden outrage, Aziraphale instinctually took a step back.

“It’s simple,” Aziraphale said, confused by the chaotic energy spilling out from the demon. “If the runes are fully functional, your lie will trigger the spell to activate. If they are not, then nothing will happen.” 

“You’ve bound this circle with an eighth-tier truth spell!” The manic laughter was back. “I may not be able to die, but that doesn’t mean I won’t still feel the pain of breaking that kind of magic! No fucking way!”

“Calm down, worst case scenario and it does activate, the spell will release only negative energy damage. I doubt that would feel like anything worse than a tickle to your kind.”

“ _I’m not a demon_!” it wailed; its fists slamming into the barrier. 

“Enough of this,” Aziraphale desperately tried to regain his composure, not wanting the demon to see just how much its actions had rattled him. “You will now tell me an obvious lie.”

“N-no.” Its hands started to shake as its breathing intensified. Aziraphale was taken aback. Demons bound into servitude were not supposed to be able to resist a direct command. A chill ran down Aziraphale’s spine at the implications.

“Lie.” He tried again, adding a touch more authority to his words as he allowed small trickles of magic to enforce the command. The demon sank to its knees, its nails dug for purchase into the wooden boards as it continued to fight the command. 

“G-g-go ffffuuuck yourse-e-elf!” 

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. Making a decision, Aziraphale unleashed his magic and spoke the words of commandment one final time. 

The lie had barely been spoken before the runes activated with a blinding display of electric blue light. Bolts of energy shot from the symbols and barrelled into the demon’s body. If Aziraphale thought its earlier screams from being summoned were painful, they were nothing compared to the piercing howls of agony that filled the room now. 

The demon… _Crowley_ …was now withering on the ground, his head thrown back as scream after scream was torn from his throat without mercy. Bright, red blood trickled from his golden eyes and nose as Aziraphale watched in frozen horror.

_What had he done?_

“No…NO! I-I-I don’t _understand_!”

Crowley continued to scream. 

Desperate to make it stop, Aziraphale did the one thing he was taught to never do while in the middle of a summons. 

He broke the seals. 

Exciting his own circle, Aziraphale rushed towards Crowley’s and destroyed the markings, breaking their power and releasing Crowley from their hold. Instantly, the blue lights vanished. With the magic broken, Crowley’s howls of pain stopped, only to be replaced with sobbing as he curled his body into a tight ball. His arms and legs coiled around himself like a barrier to protect himself from the outside world… from _him_. Tears gathered in Aziraphale’s eyes as the implications of what this all meant started to register. 

_I’m not a demon._

_Those bastards thought up all that nonsense on their own._

_Like I had a choice._

_The only form I take is my own._

_I’m not a demon!_

It was, of course, at the beginning of this revelation when the book, now forgotten on the table, started to glow. 

Since Aziraphale had failed to sign his name in the book, binding himself as Crowley’s one master, the summons was restricted to a single order event. And now that Aziraphale had made his order and it had been carried out, the book, much to Aziraphale’s dismay, proceeded to take its prisoner back, leaving Aziraphale, once again, alone in an empty room with nothing but his thoughts and the echoes of pain to keep him company. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update in two weeks. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! I am a needed writer and your words fuel my fingers. :P


	3. The Sorcerer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summoned again, Crowley is presented with something he hasn't had in over 100 years; a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my two weeks kinda turned into two months. Sorry about that. In my defense though, working 64 hours a week for 3 months straight does not a motivated writer make! lol anyways, I really hope you guys enjoy this chapter!
> 
> Also, a HUGE thank you to all who have read, commented, and left kudos! You guys are the best :D

Chapter 3: The Sorcerer

Locked back up in his void, Crowley was still reeling from the pain inflicted by the truth runes when he felt the call of another summons yanking him back. With the new onslaught of pain slamming into him, Crowley could do little more than succumb to each new wave of agony as the transformation took his still healing essence and shredded it anew.

It wasn’t long before he was lying back on the ground inside the same pentagram as before.

Crowley didn’t make any attempt to move.

His body, practically made human due to the restrictive power runes still in place, was exhausted. His nerve endings felt fried and his head was little more than a pounding mess as incoherent sounds and feelings trickled in and out.

“Fuuuuuck.”

He wished the buzzing would stop. He tried to look around him, but he couldn’t tell if he was opening his eyes or just imagining the motion of opening them. It didn’t make much of a difference, everything was just a foggy muddled pool of fractured light and shadow.

_-wley-_

He smacked his lips. His tongue felt heavy and swollen. His mouth tasted of rust. Should he try to move? Was he _able_ to move? He tried to flex his fingers, to concentrate on the feeling of the indentations along the wood. His fingers found a particularly rough groove and honed in on it as if it was a lighthouse that promised dry land. 

_-Crowl-_

A flicker of something in the corner of his eyes had him blinking in confusion. Something white. He tried to focus on the shape but it was still too blurry.

_“-an you hea-“_

Was it trying to talk to him? Crowley rolled his head and tried to lift himself up, if only a little. When his eyes blinked open again, he was able to raise his head enough to focus on the sight of the bluest set of eyes he had ever seen.

Not some faded blue, either; or some mixed brand, as if the colour couldn’t commit to what it was. No. These eyes were a deep blue; a true blue. Staring into them, Crowley felt a new kind of prison as they sung to him a siren’s call: sweet, promising… brimming with emotion. A man could drown in those eyes without ever thinking of a need for air again.

He blinked again, felt the air around him shift as the world became a little clearer.

“Oh…Oh my dear, please sa-“

White fluffy curls. The blue-eyed angel had white fluffy curls. There was something wrong though. Some nagging voice in his head. Why did they look familiar? And that voice… come to think of it, didn’t that sorcerer have fluffy white curls as well?

Another blink.

The sorcerer.

Crowley gasped for breath as everything inside him turned cold. Details once obscured behind a filmy mist, became crystal clear.

The intense smell of incense and rosemary that made him want to wretch. 

The stacks of books surrounding them.

Crowley threw himself as far back as the pentagram would allow, his eyes never leaving those of the bastard that kept him there.

“What the fuck do you want from me!” He looked exactly as he had the first time he was summoned. From the tartan bowtie wrapped around his neck right down to the brown oxford shoes.

He felt stupid and weak at the sound of his voice breaking. He sounded afraid. He was afraid. Why was it that it was always _him_ that was afraid? It should be them! He _wanted_ it to be them…

The sorcerer fell back, his own eyes widened.

“I-I-I’m so, so sor-“

“NO!” Struggling to stand, Crowley tried to claw his way up but only succeeded in collapsing on his hands and knees. Two back-to-back summoning’s without his powers to heal himself with had left him haggard. That didn’t stop him from glaring though. “You don’t get to summon me here and then apologise for it!”

“I…you’re right,” The sorcerer took a breath, his face tightened in some weak attempt at displaying regret. “I’ve caused you pain. I didn’t mean to, but that doesn’t change the fact that I still did. Still am, it would seem. Although…I don’t know why…” That last part was directed at him, as if he expected an answer. Crowley wanted to smack that look off his face. Did he really think that he was going to buy into this fake display of compassion? It was a ruse. All of it. Sorcerers don’t regret their actions. The only type of pain they understood was when it was their own.

“You can drop the act. You think you’re the first one to try to use mind games to make me do what you want? You’re not even the fifth to try that trick. You’re the one who cast the represent spell! Or,” Crowley sneered, “did you think that one wasn’t working too? Are you going to test that one out on me next? Bring my body close to death and see if I heal myself or let it discorporate?”

“No!”

“Well, what else did you think was going to happen by cutting off my powers and attacking me!”

“It wasn’t supposed to hurt you at all!” The sorcerer shot back, jumping to his feet. His hands twisted around each other, his voice becoming louder and louder as whatever pent up emotions he had been holding back could no longer be contained.

“Negative energy isn’t supposed to hurt demons!” He began to pace, not even looking at Crowley anymore as he moved. “It’s supposed to be like throwing water into a pond. You’re comprised of the same element, for heaven’s sake! Locking up your ability to access your powers shouldn’t change that, so why?” Making a swift pivot, the sorcerer moved back towards Crowley, stopping only inches away from the magical barrier.

“You said you’re not a demon.” The man whispered. Those ocean blue eyes locked, once again, onto Crowley’s in a desperate search for answers. “But you can’t be human.”

“What does it matter to you what I am?” Crowley didn’t like the way the sorcerer was looking at him. He didn’t like how it was smothering his anger into something more vulnerable. He was a good actor. Too good. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything!”

“No, it doesn’t!”

“Earlier,” The sorcerer continued, no longer listening, “you said you were the tool. That this wasn’t your choice –“

“Stop it.”

“- The book said you were a demon, but if that was a lie than that means everything else must be too. You’re not the villain, you’re the victim!”

“Stop!”

“Don’t you see? That means I can-“

“You can what?” Crowley exploded, launching himself at the sorcerer only to be stopped by the blasted forcefield. “Free me?” 

“Yes!” The man breathed. He smiled then, his features warming like the breaking dawn, casting out all shadows. Crowley hated how beautiful it made him look. He clenched his hands into fists.

“Go to hell.”

“You don’t believe me.” It wasn’t a question. Taking a step back, the sorcerer squared his shoulders, his smile transforming into a look of pure determination. “Well, we are just going to have to change that.”

Crowley laughed.

“There is nothing you can say that will make me trust you.”

The sorcerer only smiled again before turning around and heading back towards his pentagram. Crowley felt his heart tighten. Was he going to cast another spell? There was no way his body would survive another hit like before. Which means he now had to face the prospect of being discorporated.

Perfect.

Crowley, despite the protest of his body, forced himself to stand. If he was going to be discorporated, then he was going to do it while on his feet.

The sorcerer did not go into his circle though. Instead, he walked past it and towards the table near the door and picked something up.

“What are you doing?”

The sorcerer proceeded to walk back to the circle, bend down, and start to add new markings to his own pentagram. Crowley watched with rapt attention, trying to decipher the markings. It took until the sorcerer was nearly complete for him to realize what he had drawn.

“You can’t be serious?” He scoffed.

“You’re the one that said there was nothing I could say that would make you trust me.” The sorcerer replied, double-checking his markings before nodding to himself in approval and stepping inside.

“You honestly expect me to believe you are going to cast a truth spell…on yourself?”

“I am.”

“Even if you do. It won’t change anything. All those things do is compel you to answer questions and punish you when you tell a direct lie.”

Direct lie being the key part. There were, after all, many ways to answer a question without providing any answer at all. A skill, Crowley thought bitterly, all sorcerers made a point in mastering.

“Except,” The sorcerer shook his head, “that is not all I intend to do. But before I cast that spell, I think there is one that is in need of being broken first.” And with that, the sorcerer lifted his hands and began to chant. Crowley watched with mounting horror as the runes around his own pentagram started to glow. This was it, then. The second attack. He waited for the pain, determined not to give his _master_ the self-satisfaction of hearing him scream. Only, the pain never came. Instead, Crowley was surprised to see the runes of power, which prevented him from accessing his own, start to dissolve until they had disappeared entirely. It took only a second later for the effects to activate. His body, which had only been remaining upright due to sheer force and stubborn will, was now stronger, whole. The aches that still resided in his bones faded away as the warming glow of energy pulsed through his veins. Raising his own hand, Crowley snapped his fingers, instantly replacing his shendyt with black fitted breeches and a double-breasted vest. The vest, beautifully decorated with silver embroidery and ten silver buttons, rested overtop a white linin shirt that faired at the wrists. A pair of dark spectacles completed the look. Closing his eyes, Crowley allowed himself a brief moment to enjoy the illusion the ensemble cast: human, before opening them once more and bringing himself back to reality.

The sorcerer looked at him with sheer wonder, his eyes huge as they slowly drifted down Crowley’s body, lingering along the way before coming back up to settle on his face, now obscured by the thick lenses. His cheeks, Crowley noted, were tinted pink.

“Like what you see?” Crowley smirked. But the look was hardly inviting. If anything, it served as a warning. He didn’t need to see himself in a mirror to know he looked good. Nor, he thought resentfully, would this one be the first to take notice. The comment and the tone, however, had the desired effect as he watched the sorcerer’s blush deepen with shame as he quickly redirected his gaze.

“You-” The sorcerer cleared his throat, “you favour clothing from the 1700’s?”

Crowley ignored his question, choosing instead to bury the man with the full weight of his stare. The sorcerer shifted, uncomfortable. Crowley smiled.

“Well…” The sorcerer shuffled again as he continued to twist his hands into a knot. “I suppose we best get on with it.”

“So, you’re serious then, about this little game of twenty questions?”

“Twenty questions?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows.

“Why else would you cast a truth spell on yourself and declare yourself _trustworthy_.” He pronounced the last word like it was dirty. The sorcerer shook his head. 

“That’s not what…when I summoned you the first time, I only intended to discover if the book was authentic or if you were an imitation. I had no intention to use you regardless of the outcome. I still don’t. Yes, yes, I know you don’t believe me. I also know you don’t believe me when I say I did not mean to cause you harm. Regardless of any intentions I had, though, I did. That, for me, is inexcusable; and even though you don’t want to hear it, I am truly sorry.

“Being sorry doesn’t change that you still had to suffer my folly. I didn’t cast this spell to show you I am being honest. I cast it, because I wanted to prove that I am sincere.”

“Sorcerers are incapable of sincerity”

“I like to think that’s not true. But I can see why you would disagree. I won’t try to fool you into thinking I understand what has happened to you. I don’t. I don’t understand any of it: not the book, not you…all I do know is that _this_ ,” The sorcerer spread his hands out, indicating the book, still on the table, and Crowley, “is wrong.”

The man continued, the pain in his voice thickening with each word.

“Against your will, I summoned you. I forced you to tell the truth. I forced you to lie. Magic should never be used to abuse the wills of others.”

“As lovely as this speech is, I would much rather you get to the point.” Crowley forced the words to come out as harsh as possible. He didn’t need some lecture from a sorcerer about how unfair this all was. It didn’t matter that Crowley couldn’t detect a single hint of falsehood from him, it only meant he was a better liar than all the rest. Sorcerers don’t care. Not about the world, not about others, and never about him. He was their tool. Crowley could not let himself forget.

Not a second time.

“Why cast a spell you don’t intend to use?”

“To level the playing field.”

“How, exactly, does this _level_ the playing field?”

The sorcerer smiled, although this one looked more sad than anything.

“By making us even.”

 _Even_? Fucking _even!_ Crowley snarled, ready rip the sorcerer a new one, only to be stopped by the flash of light and a crackle of energy as his captor activated the runes. Slightly surprised, Crowley noted how they radiated the same level of power as his. Eighth tier; negative energy.

“Wha-“

Crowley shut his mouth. Where once there was hesitance, now only a resolve of steel shown through as the sorcerer leveled him with a look of pure determination.

He smiled, then; a warm smile that crinkled his eyes and made him glow. Crowley felt it like caress of a hand along his cheek.

But then he spoke, a lie, and all around him he glowed for an entirely different reason.

\+ + + + + + + + + + + + 

Just as they had with Crowley, the runes activated with flashes of light as bolts of energy were driven into the sorcerers now convulsing body.

It had to be a trick.

More flashes of energy splintered the air, filling the gaps with the sorcerer’s screams.

No human could survive that kind of magic for long. It was a suicide move.

Just wait, Crowley reasoned, not able to take his eyes off of the scene before him. Any second now the light show would be over and the sorcerer will stand up only to be annoyed that his little spectacle didn’t work.

Another flash. More screaming.

Crowley threw his hands at the barrier, but there was no way past.

This couldn’t be real. What the hell did he think was going to happen? A couple shocks and it would be over? All forgiven? Didn’t the idiot know that they wouldn’t stop until the caster who activated them _willed_ them to stop!

The sorcerer gasped, choking, small splatters of blood fell to the floor.

Why the fuck wasn’t he willing them to stop!

Frantically, Crowley cast out his magic, searching, desperate for even the slightest hole in the barrier. If he could just break it open….

 _What?_ The Voice in his head whispered, _what will you do? Save him?_

No.

Yes.

_Why? He’s a sorcerer. He deserves this. He deserves to die._

There! A weak spot!

_It was the sorcerers who imprisoned you._

It was just the tiniest of smudges along the line, probably created from when the sorcerer first broke the truth runes, but it was enough. He would make it enough.

_They hurt you._

_Don’t you want them to know what that feels like?_

Crowley faltered. He did want them to know what it felt like.

_It’s a trick. A gamble to earn your trust._

Maybe so. Sorcerers gambled with the lives of others all the time.

Just not with their own.

Another scream had Crowley snapping his eyes back towards the sorcerer. Blood now dripped freely from his mouth and out his ears, staining his white curls and beige coat in red.

If he didn’t do something soon, the sorcerer was going to die.

_If he dies, he can’t hurt you again. He can’t hurt anyone again._

That’s true. If Crowley let him die, he would just go back inside the book until the next time someone found him. Except. Crowley thought of the way the sorcerer looked at him, of the mixture of confusion and horror as he realized the lie had activated the spell.

 _Sorcerers don’t feel horror for what they do._ The Voice tried again.

Sorcerers also don’t apologize, Crowley thought back.

Or gamble with their own lives. And for what? Trust? Crowley’s trust was hardly worth the kind of risk this sorcerer was taking. Was _still_ taking.

With a vicious snarl, Crowley turned his nails into talons and slashed them across the barrier, focusing his magic on the weak spot until it shattered under the pressure, allowing him through.

Snap!

Claw marks broke up the runes of the sorcerer’s circle, breaking the spell and stopping the magic.

Crowley didn’t waste any time as he rushed to the sorcerer’s side. The man was unconscious. Was he too late? Carefully, Crowley maneuvered the man onto his side and pressed two fingers along where the carotid artery would be. A pulse. Weak, but still there.

 _“_ Fuck, _fuck_ , **fuck**! You fucking bastard!” With his eyes trained on the sorcerer’s face, Crowley snapped his fingers one last time, healing him.

The sorcerer groaned, his eyes fluttering open. 

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“I’m –” He doubled over into a hacking cough, spitting out the last of the blood that was still stuck in his throat. “I’m not sure. I just thought…since you were forced to suffer the consciences of my choices, that it was only fair that I placed myself under the mercy of yours.”

No.

Crowley took a step back.

“You…you-I could have let you die.”

He…he couldn’t be serious? This wasn’t…he- 

_No._

“Yes.” 

But why?

_Why?_

…why would…

Crowley flinched when he felt the gentle tug of hands pulling his, trembling? fingers from his hair. They were soft, he noted, as they smoothed his hand out flat. Warm, too.

“I want to help you. If you’ll let me.”

“I still don’t trust you,” Crowley said. He didn’t pull away.

“Of course you don’t. I don’t expect you to.”

“Then why-“

“Do you think,” The sorcerer said, drawing Crowley’s attention away from the curve of his fingers and back towards his face. “Do you think we could start again?”

“Again?”

“No pentagram, no magic.” Crowley did pull his hands away at that.

“How will you tell if I’m lying to you or not?”

“I suppose,” The sorcerer said, offering his hand with a request to shake. “I’ll just have to trust you.”

Crowley shook his head, repressing the sudden desire he felt to smile. 

Fuck.

“Allow me to start.” The sorcerer said, lifting his hand a little higher with a pointed look. “My name is Aziraphale Fell. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“I nearly let you die on the floor, and you call that a pleasure?”

“Are you going to shake my hand or not?” The sorcerer, or rather, Aziraphale, huffed.

“Oh fine,” Crowley groused, reaching out and clasping their hands together into a firm shake.

“Anthony J Crowley.” This time, he was prepared for the blinding smile. 

“Now that that’s settled,” Aziraphale chirped, releasing his hand. “What do you say to a bottle of wine?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment and let me know what you think!!  
> Your words are my salvation.


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